The Irish Upstart

chapter 3



“Ireland?” Thomas’s voice rose with surprise. “Why on earth would I want to go to Ireland?” Accepting a snifter of brandy from Whitney, he sat easily back in his chair. “Do tell me. I am all ears.”

“Surely you recall I have property in western Ireland,” the Marquess replied.

“It was presented to the second Marquess of Westhaven by James the Second, was it not?”

“Very good, Thomas.” The Marquess beamed approvingly. “You always did have a keen grasp of our family history, as opposed to . . . ah, well. I’m sure you recall the second Marquess was an illustrious warrior, a hero of the Battle of Sedgemoor in 1685. King James was most grateful for his services.”

“And thus awarded him the land.” Thomas continued, “Good farm land, as I recall. In County Mayo, is it not?”

Papa nodded. “It’s all rented out, of course, to tenants who raise corn, barley, God knows what else. ‘Til recently, I never had a problem, but lately receipts have fallen off. Since there’s a new overseer, I suspect there might be some sort of chicanery going on. I would go see for myself, but—” he cast a resentful look at his bandaged foot “—you see how it is.”

“What about Montague?”

The Marquess let out a snort. “You would never catch my illustrious son and heir that far from Saint James Street. He has no intention of prying himself away from his dissolute life in London, not even for a brief trip to Ireland.” He regarded his younger son with brooding eyes. “Perhaps it’s fortunate you returned home, after all.”

Thomas said, “You mentioned a little jaunt to Ireland. Are you aware it takes a week to get there at the very least?”

Papa scowled impatiently. “Will you go?”

“Did you ever think I might have plans of my own?”

“Knowing you, I’m sure you do.” Papa sighed in resignation. “So tell me your plans.”

“As you know, I have always been keen on raising horses. You remember Tanglewood Hall?”

“That small manor near Abingdon your mother left you?”

“My grand estate.” Thomas raised his eyebrows in self mockery. “The house is satisfactory, and the land is ideal for raising Thoroughbreds. That’s where I’m going.” Ruefully he added, “I would have started sooner, had I not gone to Jamaica.”

“I didn’t force you to go. Matter of fact, need I remind you, it was your idea?”

“I went of my own free will,” Thomas quickly confirmed. “In fact, I insisted.”

“Indeed, you did, and I, well aware how obstinate you’ve been since the day you were born, had no desire to stand in your way. I will admit, though, I did nothing to discourage you because at the time I thought running the plantation would be for your own good. You did a fine job of it, too, until you found you had a conscience.”

“Don’t condemn me.”

“Oh, surely not. But what was I to do with you, Thomas?” Papa shrugged his shoulders in mock resignation. “I would have been more than happy to buy you a riding, but you had no desire to enter the clergy. I would have gladly bought you a commission in the Navy, but you refused. Then I tried—”

“Ah, the trials of having a second son.” Thomas cast an amused glance at his father. “Stop fretting. Obviously I’m doing fine on my own. I am quite capable of taking care of myself and making my own decisions, as you well know.”

“Fine, son. Breeding Thoroughbreds is an admirable ambition, and I shall give you considerable help in that direction, upon your return from Ireland.”

Thomas felt an urge to throw up his hands. Although he loved his father dearly, years ago he rebelled against his forceful nature. The escape from paternal domination had not been easy. He could have remained the obedient second son, subject to his father’s bidding, but instead had chosen to face his father’s wrath and declare himself his own master. Papa, to put it mildly, had not been pleased, and yet, when he saw that his son would not back down, he gave in, actually most graciously. After making his stand, Thomas most certainly would not back down now.

He refrained from mentioning that on the long journey from Jamaica, he’d been hard-put to contain his eagerness, so anxious was he to reach England, hasten to Tanglewood Hall, which sat on a lush piece of land, and begin preparations for the breeding of Thoroughbred horses. He had every confidence he could succeed, and was wise enough to recognize a certain nagging disappointment with himself for having, in essence, given up on Jamaica and come running home in defeat. His reasons for leaving were truly altruistic, and most valid—he truly could not stomach the slavery—but still, he recognized that some would call him a failure, no matter what the noble reason. “Sorry, Papa, but I most definitely do not want to go to Ireland.”

Annoyance flashed through his father’s eyes. “So once again you chose to disobey me.”

“Is that anything new?”

“God’s Blood,” declared Lord Linberry, his voice raised. “I need you to go to Ireland.”

Thomas didn’t bother to react, so accustomed was he to his father’s bellowing, which, when all was said done, amounted to all bluster with no substance behind it. In a gesture that Thomas well-remembered, Papa stabbed an accusing finger at him and was preparing to speak again when, accidentally, he moved his ailing foot, winced, and cried out from the pain.

Thomas felt an immediate rush of sympathy. In a flash of keen self-observation he realized that whereas fear of his father would not cause him to capitulate, sympathy surely would. He must not convey this new-found feeling of pity to his father, though. If he capitulated, and he was about to, it must appear to be out of filial loyalty; otherwise, Papa would be hurt and highly insulted. “If you want me to go to Ireland, I suppose it’s my duty,” he said with a reluctant shrug. “Although I do think Montague should go. When would I leave?”

“You’ll not regret it, son.”

The flash of relief in Papa’s eyes told Thomas he’d made the right decision. He returned a lop-sided grin. “I regret it already, but that’s beside the point.”

“Excellent,” his father exclaimed, and nearly slapped his hand to his leg before he thought better of it. “Now, there’s just one other small matter.”

Uh-oh. What was his wily father up to now? Thomas was suddenly alert. “And what might one more thing be?” He braced himself.

“You’re to go to Aldershire Manor to see Lord Trevlyn. Matter of fact, I’ll send a message over. He’ll no doubt want you for dinner tonight.”

“The devil,” Thomas exclaimed as memories of previous, utterly woeful dinners at Aldershire Manor came to mind. The food was always excellent, of course, but not the company. Lord Trevlyn’s brother, Walter, was all right, though rather on the meek side, but Walter’s wife, Mrs. Lydia Trevlyn, fancied herself superior to the rest of mankind, most certainly to a mere second son. She was also much given to dominating a conversation with her iron-clad opinions, pontificating in a superior tone that indicated she knew everything while her listeners knew nothing. As for the three daughters... Ah, well, he mustn’t be ungentlemanly. Three years had passed since he’d seen them. Perhaps they’d changed, although he doubted it. Thomas laughed and slowly shook his head. “If you keep this up, I shall wish I was back in Jamaica, toiling under a hot sun.”

Papa had the decency to look regretful. “I know how you feel about Trevlyn’s nieces, Thomas, but remember, Trevlyn has been a good friend to me over the years.”

“Are they married yet?”

“Er... no, not any of the three. Matter of fact, I‘m still waiting for Montague to do his duty and propose to Charlotte. Bettina is waiting for you, Thomas”—Papa raised his brows significantly—”but then there’s Amanda, who’s sixteen now and pretty enough, although not a beauty. I should think Montague would want Charlotte, since she’s the eldest, as well as the most beautiful, although I allow he could pick Bettina or even Amanda, if he chooses.”

The words, some choice! rushed to Thomas’s lips, but his gentlemanly instincts suppressed them. Instead, he sighed, reflecting not much had changed in the three years since he’d left for Jamaica.

“Oh, I know what you’re thinking,” the Marquess said with a perceptive nod, “and you’d be right. Things have gone from bad to worse at Aldershire Manor, starting years ago when Trevyln lost his only son.”

“A real tragedy.” Thomas clearly recalled Lord Trevlyn troubles had begun when Randall, Viscount Montfret, Trevlyn’s one-and-only son, a wastrel if ever there was one, got himself in debt and fled England. “Randall went to Ireland, did he not?”

“Yes, and died there at an early age, after his father disowned him. Don’t know of what. He was completely out of touch with his family those last years of his life.”

“A pity,” Thomas remarked, recalling that after Lord Trevlyn’s only son died, he allowed his younger brother, Walter Trevlyn, and Walter’s unpleasant wife, Lydia, to move into Aldershire Manor along with their three daughters. From all appearances, Walter, prodded by his domineering wife, had just about taken over the estate. “Has the situation at all improved?”

“It’s gotten worse. Trevlyn’s grown quite feeble of late and seems to have lost his grip. His brother and his wife pretty much run the estate and do what they please, although I allow the chicanery is more hers than his.” Papa scowled. “No backbone, that Walter. I don’t much care for him, but, still, he’s now the heir.” His countenance brightened. “As you know, it’s been a dream of mine to conjoin our two estates. Think of it. Montague will marry Charlotte, you will marry Bettina. Thus, Northfield Hall with be forever joined with Aldershire Manor. A grand idea, what?”

Picturing the three daughters, Thomas smiled wryly. “A lofty ambition, Papa. What does Montague say?”

The Marquess’ eyes hardened, reminding Thomas that when occasion warranted, his father could be as unyielding as a stone. “Montague will do as I say. I have put him on notice. He will marry one of Trevlyn’s daughters, preferably Charlotte, and soon.”

Poor Montague, Thomas thought, feeling a rare pang of sympathy for his prodigal older brother.

His father continued, “And it wouldn’t hurt, Thomas, if you considered marrying Bettina sometime soon.”

“Not likely,” Thomas said with a smile. “I’ve told you before I’m not the marrying kind, but if I ever do, it will be for love, not because it’s expected of me.” He raised a sardonic eyebrow. “One of the few advantages of being a second son.”

The Marquess breathed a wistful sigh. “Ah, Thomas, if only...”

“Give Montague more time, Papa,” Thomas said softly. “Who knows? Some day he might tire of brandy, women, and White’s every night. Then he might surprise you.”

The Marquess returned a skeptical sniff. “I no longer delude myself. Montague will never change. What a travesty that he will inherit my estate, whereas you--”

Thomas raised his hand. “Say no more. I live my life with no regrets. So should you.”

Love and pride filled his father’s eyes. “You’re a son to be proud of.”

Thomas arose and smiled. “Send the message to Lord Trevlyn. I shall be happy to see him, for dinner, or whatever he likes. If it’s dinner, perhaps he’ll invite Penelope, too. Then I won’t be totally bored. I don’t suppose you... ?”

“Dear God, no.” Papa gazed ruefully at his foot. I’m a prisoner in this room until my gout improves.” After a pause, he said, “I appreciate your doing this. Bear in mind there are worse hardships in life than dining with Trevlyn’s daughters.”

“Of course there are,” Thomas assured him. But at the moment I cannot think what, he thought but didn’t say.

* * *

Bored, bored, bored.

Thomas had never been so bored in all his life. No, take that back. He hadn’t been so bored since the last time he’d come to Aldershire for dinner and the Honorable Miss Bettina Trevlyn, Lord Trevlyn’s niece, had deigned to describe to him, in the most excruciating detail, her latest triumphs in the world of needlework. How much longer must he sit here, regaled by a stitch-by-stitch description of her Europa-and-the-bull pillow cover? Where was Lord Trevelyn? When would dinner be served? How soon could he politely leave? How was it possible that one human being could talk incessantly, without end! about petit-point?

Parliament should pass some sort of law.

Across the ornate drawing room, he caught a furtive glimmer of amusement in his sister’s eyes. He would get no sympathy there. Penelope dearly loved to see him suffer.

“Lord Thomas? Are you listening?”

“Hmm? Oh, yes, of course, Miss Trevlyn.” He focused his attention upon another, thickly embroidered pillow cover she was now displaying. “You were saying about the stitches? Fascinating. Do tell me more.”

“You will note the seven rows of flat and French-knot stitches done in silk-chenille thread,” Bettina continued in her humorless voice, running her finger lovingly over her latest triumph. “Note they’re done in various shades of pink. I almost made them red, though. In fact, I started to stitch them in red and then I thought, I might like them better in pink. A most perplexing dilemma, as you can see. So then I decided I really did like them better in pink, so I pulled out all the red stitches and put in the pink.”

God save me. Actually the girl wasn’t that bad looking. Nice figure... brown hair piled stylishly atop her head... pleasantly rounded face, although rather on the bland side, but with eyes that held not one iota of spark or humor. He must try to be kind.

He was saved when Bettina’s mother, purse-lipped, pinch-nosed Mrs. Walter Trevyln, sitting grandly on the settee across, called sharply, “Bettina, I do believe Lord Thomas has heard enough about your needle-work.” She regarded Thomas with avid curiosity. “So tell me, Lord Thomas, what of your dear brother, Lord Eddington? Did you see him in London upon your return from the West Indies?”

Thomas was not surprised at her question. For years, it appeared Lydia Trevlyn’s main goal in life was to marry off her eldest daughter to Montague, or if not the eldest, one of the other two. Obviously nothing had changed. “I didn’t have a chance to see my brother. I came straight from the docks to Northfield Hall, stopping only long enough to hire my horse.”

Charlotte, the eldest daughter, always a model of elegance, beauty, and propriety, awarded him a tight smile. “A pity, Lord Thomas. Of late, we have seen little of Lord Eddington. Do you suppose he’s been taken ill?”

Not likely, Thomas thought, but tactfully answered, “If he is ill, I haven’t heard.” He had noted an edge to her voice, and no wonder. Miss Charlotte Trevlyn’s beauty was without imperfection. Her deportment was impeccable. She could sing like a lark and play piano with amazing skill. She spoke French like a native. Her watercolors were superb. She was, in essence, everything a young lady of the Polite World should be, but up to now, despite her best efforts, and her mother’s, she had not managed to trap old Montague.

Thomas knew the reason. “The girl is like a beautiful doll,” Montague once complained. “Such perfection. But it’s all just for show. Underneath she’s hollow, except for greed and vanity, just like her mother.”

Thomas could not argue with the truth. “All that aside, Montague, Papa expects you to marry her. He’ll be keenly disappointed if you don’t.”

Thomas remembered his brother’s grim look of resignation as he replied, “I know, and someday I’ll propose, as soon as I can stomach the thought of marrying that block of ice.” Montague made a face and added, “You don’t know how lucky you are to be a second son.”

But Charlotte’s a beautiful block of ice. Thomas turned his attention to the eldest daughter, admiring her white skin, blonde hair piled high, her figure stunning in her low-cut satin dinner gown. What a pity...

“Thomas, my boy, how good to see you.”

To Thomas’s relief, Lord Trevlyn entered the drawing room. Papa was right. His lordship had aged since Thomas last saw him. His hair was completely white; deep lines etched his face; his shoulders were stooped, as if in defeat, and he now walked with a cane. Thomas stood, bowed, and remarked, “And it’s good to see you, sir.” He stopped himself from adding, “You’re looking fit,” because that would be a lie. He had always liked Lord Trevyln who was one of his father’s best friends, despite their being almost exact opposites, both in temperament and interests. Papa was a big, burly man, noisy and outgoing—or at least he had been before the gout. He liked fishing, hunting, and all outdoor sports. Trevlyn, on the other hand, was a reclusive man who spent much time in his study reading the classics in their original Greek and Latin. He turned even more reclusive after his only son died, and now foolishly allowed his brother Walter and his family full run of his estate.

Lord Trevlyn gazed at Thomas with his soft, kind eyes. “Did your father tell you I wanted to speak to you?”

“Yes, he did, sir.”

“Then after dinner, eh?”

“Of course,” Thomas replied, at a loss to know what Trevlyn could possibly want to discuss.

* * *

Despite his misgivings, Thomas enjoyed dinner. Perhaps, he thought wryly, it was because he’d concentrated on his meal, saying little, while Mrs. Trevlyn and her daughters jabbered non-stop about that most exciting event, the up-coming London Season. As always, Lord Trevyln was a gracious host. Even his brother, Walter, who usually remained quiet, was congenial.

When dinner was finished and the ladies had adjourned to the drawing room, Lord Trevlyn settled with his guest in the library, each with a glass of fine brandy in his hand. “So you’re going to Ireland,” Trevlyn observed.

Thomas sat back in his chair. “I am indeed, sir, at my father’s behest. He owns land in County Mayo, as I’m sure you are aware.”

“Did you know that I, too, own land in Ireland?”

“No, I did not.”

Trevlyn appeared to be musing as he swirled the brandy in its glass. “My land is not nearly as fruitful as your father’s. Fact is, it lies in County Clare, near Galway Bay. Full of rocks, I’ve been told, and not good for much of anything but growing potatoes and grazing sheep.”

“That’s interesting, sir.” What on earth did Trevlyn want?

“As long as you’re going to Ireland, I would be most grateful if you’d check on my land as well as your father’s.”

More delay. Thomas felt an instant’s squeezing disappointment. But this was his father’s best friend, so there was only one possible response he could make. “I would be most happy to, sir.” But why?

“You’re curious, aren’t you?” asked Lord Trevlyn with a knowing smile. “You cannot fathom why a man as rich as I, owner of countless tracts of land here in England, could possibly be concerned about one small, barren patch of land in Ireland.”

Thomas sipped his brandy. “That did occur to me.”

“I hardly know myself,” came Trevlyn’s surprising reply. “I confess I lost interest after Randall—” a look of sorrow crossed Lord Trevlyn’s face, and he cleared his throat. “It has to do with my son, I think. Randall has been gone these many years now.” He sighed and continued, “I disowned him, and for good reason. Yet, as the years have gone by, I find myself thinking of him more and more. It’s as if... I find it impossible to explain, but I have the feeling Randall wants to tell me something, that there’s something unfinished, there, near Galway Bay, something I should know.”

“Have you any idea what?”

“Try not to think me a fool, Thomas.” Trevlyn uttered a self-deprecating laugh. “Although I am one, I suppose. Before he fled England, Randall talked about that piece of land. There was a cottage that overlooked the sea, and a bit of land for raising sheep. He showed an interest in it, although I have no idea if he ever actually visited the place or not. It’s just that... I simply...”

The poor old man was floundering. Thomas hastened to put his mind at rest. “Say no more, sir, of course I’ll go. If there are people living on your land, what shall I say?”

“Tell them... well, I suppose you should try to collect the rent,” said Lord Trevlyn, growing thoughtful. “Not the back rent, which I fear would be too great a hardship, but in future, tell them they’ll have to pay. That’s only fair, don’t you agree?”

“I do indeed, sir.”

“Well, then, I am most grateful.” A gleam of relief lit the old man’s eyes. “Lord knows, there’s not much joy left in my life, although it’s a consolation knowing my estate will be left... in good hands.”

That pause before good hands gave the old man away. What a bitter pill to swallow, Thomas mused, that Trevlyn’s only child, once his pride-and-joy, was dead, and now his brother and his greedy, tiresome family would inherit his beloved Aldershire Manor, and all the rest.

* * *

Later that night, as Thomas drove their curricle the short distance home, he asked his sister, “Where is Galway Bay anyway?”

“On the west coast of Ireland, I believe.” Penelope patted his arm affectionately. “It’s most generous of you. You did not have to say yes, you know.”

Thomas remained silent. No need to explain that in the study, after Trevlyn had finished his poignant request, Thomas had easily, almost eagerly, said yes, not only because he felt sorry for Lord Trevlyn, but because he, too, felt a compelling curiosity to see that rocky plot of land near Galway Bay.